


21st Century Objectification

by race-jackson (Race_Jackson23)



Series: and so i am the other half of your soul [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, POV Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, charity galas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Race_Jackson23/pseuds/race-jackson
Summary: If there was one thing Steve Rogers hadn’t gotten used to in the 21st century, it was the hero worship.alternatively: that obligatory darcy/steve soulmate au where she saves him from creepy socialites





	21st Century Objectification

If there was one thing Steve Rogers hadn’t gotten used to in the 21st century, it was the objectification.

Sure, he’d experienced a mild version of it in the forties, especially after his USO shows had gotten popular. There had always been a line of people after a show waiting to greet him, and sometimes he got letters sent to set or his hotel suites from some of the more excitable fans, yet that was truly the extent of it. The Howlies would rib him about his “adoring” fans, teasing about his camp followers and the Londoners who asked him to sign their comics, but the truth was, outside of the suit, no one really noticed him and if they did, they certainly did not bother him.

That could not be said for the 21st century. At all.

Firstly, people knew exactly what he looked like, and after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., even _more_ people knew. Whereas before he’d only be recognised if he was wearing the suit, now it was impossible to avoid notice, his face plastered over talk shows, newspapers, the _Internet_. And even worse than that was the second thing, which was that when people recognised him, they felt compelled to talk to him. It didn’t matter if he was out on an early morning run or eating dinner out or _clearly in a rush to get somewhere_ , someone would notice him and think to themselves, _Hey, there goes Captain America! I should go talk to him!_

Which would have been fine, and for the first few times he was flattered, he truly was, but then it started to feel like _everyone_ was doing it. A group of teenagers on the subway that called him over; an older man who said he reminded him of his youth; a pack of middle-aged mothers that burst into compliments at his pained “Ma’am.” Nothing and nowhere was sacred, not church, not his recently-acquired soulmate mark - not even the hot dog stand parked two blocks from the Tower. He’d started to feel like that dancing monkey again, an attraction only there for the enjoyment of others. And it was so much worse at _galas._

Galas, in general, were the bane of his existence but the ones that Tony threw were the worst. Often enough, the people there were the kind that thought the sun shined out of their ridiculously-wealthy asses and wanted everyone around them to treat them like it too. To them, he existed only as a plaything, a kind of life-sized doll to objectify and trod over. They did it to Natasha and Tony, too, but both were far more adept at handling it than he was, and since the Avengers only attended to scrounge up donations for whatever city had been last attacked by killer bees or whatever ridiculous thing was their last enemy, Steve felt far too uncomfortable to protest.

Case in point: the Stark Industries Relief Gala for New York City Recovery.

As per usual, a Steve without a date or a soulmate meant that the wealthy heiresses and widowed millionaires in attendance had flocked to his side. Most of the night from there had been spent carefully cajoling them away, too no avail. Steve was simply, as Tony put it, far too nice to risk possible donations on account of his own negligible suffering.

“I feel like I’m being pimped out,” Steve had complained earlier on in the night when he’d snatched a moment of freedom from his fans. “You’re pimping me out!”

Tony merely patted Steve on the shoulder, saying only, “We’ve all been there, and now it’s your turn. You’re doing fine, just give me a buzz if it gets too much and I’ll send a distraction.”

He was halfway across the room by the time Steve’s groupies figured out where he was. As they started babbling again, Steve couldn’t help but internally curse Tony’s name.

And then it happened.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”

Steve’s brain shorted out. His jaw dropped comically. Then he turned around to see _her_.

The woman in front of him was short – shorter, even, than he had been pre-serum, but that was where the similarities ended. Her dark hair was arranged in a cascading waterfall braid that fell in thick strands across the pale skin of her exposed shoulders, and her full lips, pulled into a grin, were painted plum to match her dress. Said dress hugged her figure carefully, accentuating the fullness of her hips and bust in a way that called to mind the pinup figures of his youth. Even his muddled brain was able to string together enough consciousness to recognise one thing: she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

With an expectant look in her eyes – blue, but like shards of clear crystal – she drew him into her arms for a hug, muttering, “Pretend as if you know me, I’m here to rescue you.”

Steve could only gape, brain still glitching. He had no idea what to say! _Something witty_ , what was less of his senses begged him, _something memorable_.

What he said was neither of those things.

“I think you’re my soulmate!” was what he blurted out instead.

“Huh.”

There was an awkward pause in which she gaped at him and he gaped at her and tried to think up of things to say, only to be broken when one of the remaining socialites asked, “I thought you two already knew each other?”

Without pause, his soulmate bit back, “Shut up, Karen, I only said that because you guys were being nasty, fuck off back to your hole now.”

Offended, they abandoned him, but Steve had barely noticed. His brain had managed to process the whole “soulmate” thing only to glitch again when said soulmate had told Wendy Greenway to “fuck off back to her hole”. No wonder she was his soulmate.

“You’re not good at talking to women, are you?” she said finally after a good few minutes where he gaped at her, unspeaking. He could only nod. If anything, her grin grew brighter. “That’s ok, I can talk enough for the both of us. What’s your name, Gorgeous?”

“Steve,” he whispered, her grin spreading warmth through his chest like he was sitting by the fireplace. He cleared his throat, and said more forcefully, “I’m Steve.”

The way her full lips stretch over her teeth at that was positively predatory. What was left of his dignity and coherence melted into a puddle.

“Hi, Steve. My name’s Darcy.”

Maybe there were some benefits to 21st-century objectification after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I hoped you liked it! I don't usually write Darcy/Steve, but my muse was struck with this, so I thought I'd share. Feel free to leave a comment to let me know if you liked it, and come chat with me on tumblr where I'm @race-jackson.


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